


All That Glitters

by QuillerQueen



Series: Greek Mythology AUs [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Golden Fleece AU, Greek Mythology AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22701652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: On his quest for the Golden Fleece, Robin of Thessaly found something - or rather, someone - much more precious than the coveted relic. If only Regina, the powerful enchantress who captured his heart in faraway Colchis, would dare to hope there could be more in store for her than darkness...
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood, Outlaw Queen
Series: Greek Mythology AUs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871809
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7
Collections: Outlaw Queen Valentine’s Gift Exchange 2020





	1. Stirring (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mysterious_song](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterious_song/gifts).



_ Speak to me, Hecate. _

Black smoke rose from the altar as flames consumed the sacrifice.  In tight spirals it rose, scorching the air. Acrid it rose, poisonous to all who dared come too close to the mighty goddess’ abode. 

Shrouded in darkness, the priestess watched the fire burn, muttering incantations to the three-faced witch-goddess of the night. The ravens screeched—beaks snapping, talons flashing—as she approached the cage to release them.

_ Show me what was, what is, what’s yet to come. _

The birds spilled into the sky in a frenzy, veering sharply to the left, tearing at each other and showering dark marble in crimson blood.

The priestess didn’t recoil at the spectacle. She’d seen carnage before. She’d seen nothing but this, through all the years of her service, nothing but more of the same—a horrid omen of dark, restless times, of constant strife and danger. It was neither new nor unexpected. It left her cold. Unmoved. Empty.

Rarely, if ever, did she stir with emotion anymore. And why would she? Nothing ever changed in Colchis—or, indeed, for her.

And then—a speck of white overhead. Not Hecate’s bird. No, this was the familiar of a different goddess, one the priestess neither served nor revered. The wretched thing would find nothing but death here.

The priestess looked on, blinded momentarily by the flash of white as the dove darted towards the murder of ravens only to be lost amid dark wings and deafening screeches. Her heart knocked against her chest—a dull echo of something long lost—as the moon pushed through the clouds to bask in the bloodbath.

_ This is how love dies. _

And then—speeding through a gap in the pandemonium of dark plumage and sharp beaks, the dove swooped down, brushed the priestess’s hair with a ruffled wing, and ascended to the sky. By the time the ravens realised and gave pursuit, she was long gone.

A single white feather—crumpled and bloodied, but intact—landed at the priestess’s feet.

For the first time in ages, she was no longer feeling nothing.


	2. Lionheart

Six weeks have passed since they’d ventured into the Infinite Forest questing for the Golden Fleece, and they had yet to meet another soul.

Eve after gloomy eve, morn after misty morn, Robin would dine and break fast with his ragtag entourage. They were outcasts and outlaws, neither descended from gods nor headed for ascension to the night skies as twinkling constellations, as the choicest heroes were wont to do. Not the cream of Hellas perhaps, but a hearty, hefty lot all the same, true brothers in arms once trust had been gained and respect earned among them.

That was one victory to celebrate. A victory George can’t have seen coming when he'd assigned the scum of his dungeons to accompany Robin on a mission the despicable king surely believed doomed to failure. The ultimate prize, however, remained out of reach—if it even did exist outside the realm of myth and legend.

Robin downed the lamentable contents of his goblet (his entire wine ration for the day, heavily watered), nibbled on a bone long stripped of every last shred of stringy meat, and rose before the sun to scout ahead. Deaf to his comrades’ usual morning round of jests and brawls, he followed the undefinable pull that had petered out after the first two weeks of journey through menacing mazes of trees and bushes overgrown with ivy and moss, yet had returned that day with a heretofore unknown intensity. Tugging at his belly, swelling in his chest, it urged him forth.

At midday he spotted it between the treetops: the curious, pointy turrets of the Dark Palace, scratching the stormy skies.

* * *

The storm was her doing.

Regina’s magic, seeping uncontrollably from every exhausted, terrified pore, swirled in the sordid sky like so many murky clouds. By midday, the air had grown thick with her agony and charged with her anger. A clap of thunder, and the sky was torn asunder, weeping a myriad tears Regina’d had locked tight in her chest for years.

Six weeks earlier, a white dove had escaped the beaks of a vicious pack of ravens on Hecate’s altar, and still the bird’s gentle coos haunted her.

Night after sombre night Regina would invoke the moon goddess, seeking answers that didn’t involve the meddling of flighty Aphrodite, whom she’d long stopped calling upon. Dreary dusk to dewy dawn, Aphrodite’s bird followed her around, gazing upon her with a beady eye. The insolent fowl ruffled not a feather even as Regina hurled object after useless object at the walls out of sheer frustration. All attempts to make sense of the phenomenon were proving futile, and the one obvious reading of this omen she couldn’t accept, for it could be nothing but a cruel trick, a dreadful delusion.

Regina stood on a turret high above the city walls, sandalled feet planted in a cloudbank. Cold and rigid like a marble caryatid she stood, with her hair whipping about in the howling wind. She sensed rather than saw them approach.

Foreigners.  _ Xenons _ . Come to steal the Fleece, no doubt. That was all anyone ever bothered coming here for. And why else journey to the very edge of the world?

_ Certainly not for me. _

The dove cooed softly in her ear, caressed her damp cheek with a flap of its wings, and—just as the palace gate creaked open below—took off into the eye of the storm.

* * *

With treacherous mud underfoot and clouds ripped open with Zeus’s thunderbolts overhead, Robin and the Merry Men breasted the savage rain. It poured and whipped and pelleted every inch of their mud-streaked skins. Crossing the town now reduced to dark smudges, they reached the castle gates slipping and sliding, with a veritable abundance of cursing and not a semblance of glory. Some heroic entrance indeed.

Aside from the menacing bronze dragon head glaring from the glistening wall, there wasn’t a guard in sight. Even for a people whose custom would protect guests by divine law, this was a tad too much hospitality. Given the circumstances, though, none of the sloshed and soaked non-heroes hesitated at this chance to flee the raging elements. One mighty push, and they found themselves shivering in the antechamber of King Leopold’s fabled castle.

A hubbub of muted voices and an all too distinct smell of roast pork drifted from the megaron—and Robin’s stomach rumbled in perfect symphony with those of his mates.

“Just in time for dinner,” boomed John, whose heavy build had earned him the epithet Little, much to the merriment of the rest of the starved gang. They flocked towards the heart of the house like flies to honey, well aware that a feast would not be denied them—Greek custom dictated no questions be asked until after their bellies had been filled.

Only Robin remained behind, rubbing his cramping stomach miserably. He was drenched and muddied from the deluge, his clothes ragged from weeks in the wilderness. He looked like a vagrant, a sorry tramp, more than anything. Even a kind enough king would treat him with charity at best but certainly not as an equal. That was poor ground for negotiation indeed.

In the megaron, the scurrying of feet and the clinking of cups complemented the rise and fall of the bard’s declamations.

The scurrying of  _ servant _ feet.

Surely no one would miss a chiton if he were to “borrow” one from the servants’ quarters?

* * *

Regina was watching, and what she saw did little to impress her.

These marauders, like most before them, were a boorish lot, trampling about the castle like a full-blood stallion struggling against too-tight reins, salivating at the vision of a banquet like a pack of wolves. They’d be easily thwarted, she thought, and wished for once the challengers were worth her while at all. Why, these poor famished brutes might just eat themselves to death at Leopold’s generously laid tables.

Except maybe for that one.

Their leader hadn’t followed the rest in, but remained in the gloomy hall, rubbing his neck. Silver-blue moonlight slanted through the window, making his skin gleam, sharpening the contours of his muscled arms. The man carried a bow and arrows—a coward’s weapon. And he stole from servants.

A dark laugh rumbled in her chest, dry and bitter.

A common thief? That’s what the prophecy amounted to?  _ That _ ’s what the stupid bird had announced?

What a waste of time and effort.

With a swish of her robes, she slipped into the megaron and took her usual place at the king’s throne. No one noticed her curiously-timed arrival, just as no one had noticed her absence earlier.

No one ever did.

* * *

King Leopold, much to Robin’s astonishment, gave them a warm welcome. The Merry Men were nigh-bursting with food and still couldn’t help sampling scrumptious delicacies set on plates of gold. Robin, too, was heartily encouraged to eat his share, and though embarrassed by his unrefined gorging, after the scarcity suffered before, he did just that.

Then, and only then, did Robin stand before king and court to present his case.

The pilfered garments were too large, Robin’s hands somehow still numb with cold, and the folds of the chiton cascaded all the way to his wrists. They were warm clothes, costly fabric fit for a noble, yet worn by the lowest of the castle’s occupants. He supposed one could afford that kind of luxury when one owned an object as valuable as the Golden Fleece.

Which he’d come to claim.

The king knew it. Everybody knew it. Still they’d wait for him to state his purpose.

“I come seeking justice, Your Majesty,” Robin began, for this particular ruler, if rumours were to be believed, liked to think of himself as kind and just.

“Justice?” the king interrupted with a furrowed brow. “Not honour? Fame? Riches?”

“My birthright, which I’d returned home to claim after my father’d joined the shades in Hades, was denied to me by King George. He refuses to yield the throne that is rightfully mine unless I prove myself worthy in the eyes of the gods. It is upon his request that I come questing for the Fleece.”

“An honest man,” Leopold gave him with perhaps a hint of respect—and not a little condescension.

Not that Robin’s honour had done him much good in the face of a cad like George, but Robin figured his mission would be more than obvious anyway, and if there was a chance to appeal to Leopold with his cause, he might as well use it. He still had a few tricks up his sleeve for later, just as soon as the king refused him—an outcome perfectly inevitable, if Robin was being realistic.

“You say you seek justice, Robin of Thessaly, and your cause indeed appears just. Yet I must refuse your request. The Golden Fleece belongs by right to the people of this land. You have no claim to it.”

Robin had prepared for this eventuality. He had rehearsed for this moment. He’d drafted a speech and memorised it by heart in all its variations in the past six weeks of journeying. 

“ O righteous king ,” he began with just the right balance of confidence and courtesy, “I—”

But words failed him then. All air rushed out of his lungs, all thought left him.

An apparition had materialised at the king’s side and struck Robin dumb. A  _ stunning _ apparition, with dark eyes and dark locks, dark robes hemmed with gold, and a piercing look that made him weak in the knees. A goddess, no doubt, for how else could she have made such an absurdly profound impression on him? No one else seemed similarly affected—indeed, the king seems to not have noticed her at all. Could she have chosen to only appear to Robin? Why?

“Our esteemed guest seems somewhat tongue-tied,” Leopold smiled, lacking warmth or sincerity.

_ Get it together, Robin. _

“Apologies,  King Leopold .” He can’t stumble through this like a boy. Not if his challenge is to be taken seriously. “The Fleece has indeed been your property since the time of Phrixus, who brought it to this land by the will of the gods. Therefore I petition you, o noble king, to answer my challenge and have the gods decide the Fleece’s fate—and mine.”

“You are prepared to lay down your life, then, for a cause so many celebrated heroes have already lost their lives to?”

What honour would he have left otherwise?

“That I am,” he declared with a surge of courage, rolling up the blasted sleeves of the badly-fitting chiton as if enemies were already afoot.

The king blanched. The court gasped in unison. The goddess beside the king’s throne stared wide-eyed at the rearing lion tattooed on Robin’s forearm, then retreated to the shadows.

Robin glanced over at his Merry Men for answers on this peculiar phenomenon, but all he received in return was puzzled shrugs and astonished looks.

He waited a time that seemed infinite for the king to collect his wits again.

“Then so be it,” the king, somehow shrunk in size, croaked. “Three tasks will be set to you. Your men can’t interfere. If at the end you live, you’ll have proved your merit before the gods, and I will give you the Golden Fleece.”

“And grant safe departure?” Robin ventured, aware it never boded well to imply the king had ulterior motives but seeking a binding word nonetheless.

The goddess’s lips twitched. For a moment she looked mildly impressed—or amused, perhaps?—before her expression returned to blank and haughty.

King Leopold frowned, but had no other choice but to concede.

“You’ll be assigned quarters in the palace,” he said, his tone so cool it chilled the room. “The queen will make the arrangements.”

* * *

Obviously Regina would make the arrangements—she always did. She’d put up the contenders and their retinues in the northern wing of the palace. She’d assign the staff and give orders to those who were to be her eyes and ears. She’d bring some of the findings to Leopold, throw him a bone just juicy enough to pacify him, and keep the rest to herself to use as she saw fit.

No one had ever lasted beyond the first challenge—these men would dine with the shades tomorrow.

Even their leader, this—this Robin of Thessaly, with his strange accent and too-bright eyes (about to be dimmed forever, and what an oddly unsettling thought), bearing the lion’s crest foretold to be the doom of Colchis a decade ago, would not last long enough to see Hecate rise to the night sky. Even he would fall, like everyone before him. No beast inked into flesh, no sign or prophecy, would protect him.

Not that she cared. The sooner it was over, the better. Then they could all go back to their lives.

What did she have to return to, exactly? Her happiest hours were those spent at the temple or the grove, and even those left a bitter aftertaste. Prophecies unfulfilled hung over her head, as impossible to believe as they were to forget. Leopold largely ignored and detested her, though that didn’t stop him from using her when the mood struck. The people only had fear and hatred left for her. Those who’d known her as a girl had either forgotten or crossed to the other side. All that was left of Regina was a witch wielding hellish powers and a queen wielding none. The life she’d go back to was one of eternal emptiness as she succumbed ever more to the darkness of her shrinking heart.

Once this one was dealt with, the next challenger would no doubt knock on their gates soon enough. Merely another brief disturbance. It was all part of the routine.

So consumed by her thoughts was she that she didn’t hear the steps in the wake of her own until he called to her.

“My lady…” his voice echoed in the antechamber.

It was him—the would-be king, in his stolen, too-big chiton, with his lips upturned in a lopsided smile.

“Thief,” she bit out. It was only the two of them in the torch-lit hall—he must have followed her out from the megaron while his boisterous band was clearing the platters of every last morsel. Whatever could he want with her?

She’d seen him looking at her, back in the throne room. She’d seen his jaw drop and his eyes go wide, watched his words turn to air at the sight of her. She knew men lusted after her still, despite her reputation. This one, though, well he didn’t seem…lewd. The way he’d looked at her—the way he was looking at her now—didn’t make her skin crawl. That only made him even more dangerous, lion or not.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said. How trite. Disappointing, really. “I assure you my men and I will be no trouble.”

Regina barked out a dry laugh.

“You’ve come to steal from us. Wouldn’t you call that trouble enough?”

“Ah, but had we wanted to steal the Fleece, we wouldn’t have come knocking on your gates, would we now?”

And he was wearing this smirk, this insolent, irritating little smirk that would be absolutely insufferable if it didn’t also come with that peculiar sparkle in his eye. It was rare for anyone to even meet her eye directly, much less dare to challenge her with an air that was more playful than hostile. He wasn’t fooling her though, sparkle or not.

“Perhaps had the weather been more favourable or the game more abundant this time of year, you wouldn’t have been so quick to seek our hospitality.”

“I intend to fight with honour.”

Fool. A noble one, in the unlikely event he spoke the truth, but a fool nonetheless.

“Then you should make sure you have coin ready for the ferryman.”

“I’ve no intention to cross over so soon.”

Oh, but very few ever did. Daniel hadn’t, and the child who’d never seen the light of day certainly had been taken before its time. Arrogant men always believed themselves above divine law though, above the laws of nature. She’d had her fill of them—she had no use, no patience for another. And he was supposed to be her—? No, he wasn’t worth finishing the thought, and neither was the false prophecy she’d always known to be a lie.

“The Underworld doesn’t ask. It takes what it’s owed.”

“I’ll pay my dues,” the man shrugged, “ _ when _ they are due.”

“So cocky.”

“Determined.”

“Brazen.”

“I should hope not.” His hand shot up to rub the back of his neck—a nervous habit, it would seem. “I was hoping to make a good first impression.”

A waste of time, that. Noble, perhaps, but naive. Useless.

“It makes no difference. The king will protect the Fleece before anything.”

“Then the king is a fool.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Regina hissed, hot and flushed from head to toe.

His cheeks tinged under the stubble, but he didn’t take his words back.

“Only that he’s not the one I was hoping to impress.”

Oh, but he meant it. His eyes blazed with something she couldn’t quite define and certainly couldn’t afford to entertain.

“Careful, thief.”

“I intend to be, my lady. I’d much rather dine with you here on Earth than down below in the company of Cerberos.”

Regina blinked. This man—Robin of Thessaly—had no business speaking such words to her, Queen Regina, Priestess of Hecate. None. And yet here they were. She didn’t tolerate disrespect…but perhaps that was it—he wasn’t being disrespectful, not for a moment. Cheeky, perhaps, and reckless, but not the same kind of conceited and patronising she was used to in the particular brand of ruffians and adventurers coming to seek their fortune in Colchis. Or perhaps she was imagining it, desperate to find some vessel for the freakish omen she was so desperate to bury.

Her response came unbidden, as if her mouth had a mind of its own.

“Survive the first challenge and you just might.”


End file.
